Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Girl walks into a bar

I was at one my favorite D.C. watering holes recently, wearing a skirt that just kept riding up on my thighs and a jacket cut specifically to hide my firearm. A man sidles up, sits next to me and starts talking. He's short -- maybe my height -- with tight curly gray hair and a receding hairline. A big open face with black bushy eyebrows. An off-the-rack suit. He's in town on business: A lawyer for an auto-parts maker in Akron.

So we talk. Back in Akron he's got two kids who hate him and a wife who doesn't understand him. They haven't had sex in a year and she only likes the missionary position. People will tell you the damnedest things when they're drunk, needy and want to get laid. Did I tell you that I was wearing sheer black stockings and garters? I like the feel. They make me feel sexy, the lace against my skin, the open space between stockings and panties, the feeling of ever-present naughtiness.

What do you do, he asks? I usually give my standard, "I work for the government," and let people think I'm a secretary at the Agriculture Department...whatever. This time I say, "I'm a dancer." I watch his eyes. I add, "I strip."

His eyes grow wide. "Do you like it?" He gulps his drink. "It's okay," I say.

I have this overriding whimsy to follow up and say, "I fuck for money." I am feeling edgy and horny and ready to get into trouble. He senses it. I wonder what he looks like naked. Short and squat with a paunch and a too-hairy chest and skinny middle-aged-man legs. He turns red and I look down to see his cock bulging down the left leg of his trousers. This one's hung: It looks about nine inches but not thick; all the same circumference as it runs down his leg, not tapering or flaring toward the head.

I want to say, "I fuck for money" and see what he says. He'll ask if I'm a cop and I'll say no, which is technically true, I am not local law enforcement. When he asks about money, I'll say a thousand for an hour, and we'll go back to his hotel room where he's living out of a battered Midwestern suitcase, and I'll see how much of that long dick he can get inside me. I'll do everything his boring little fat wife won't do. These thoughts have be drenched down below. I can smell myself. I know he can, too.

Unfortunately, I can quote the statutes I'll be breaking, so after awhile I finish my drink and leave. Back home, I slowly strip down to everything but my stockings, lie in bed with only the city lights flowing into the room. I come the second I touch my clit. Later, I think: Maybe he was a cop. Wouldn't that have been a hoot...until I was fired.

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I'm the sophisticated, educated woman in the power suit during the day...and you might know me as Linda.
Beneath it, I'm hornier at 40 than I was at 19, and telling strangers about my love life is therapy from my button-down professional world.
These are true stories. Only the names of the lovers have been changed to protect the (sometimes) innocent.
I welcome your comments and questions (ask me anything, really).